Chapter 1: Ann Arbor’s Not A Whore (But She’s No Saint Either)
Grey concrete sidewalk underneath a concrete grey sky. It shouldn’t be this cold yet, but like most the dames I’ve met, fall’s a fickle bitch. I walk past a homeless guy and drop him a dollar. This city’s tough, but being a private dick is tougher. People have questions and they want answers. Has my old lady been stepping out on me? Is my husband blowing half his paycheck on the ponies? Where’d MJV go? Most of the time, they don’t like what I have to tell ‘em. Fortunately for me, they’re willing to pay for that information anyway. Like Tupac and Bruce Hornsby once said, that’s just the way it is.
I came here over ten years ago after busting cases in jerkwater West Virginia towns for ten years before that. There’s only so many times you can sleuth out who stole the Reader’s Digest from Bill Stewart’s mailbox before you need something else. So I came to the big city with a suitcase full of memories and a dream of making it big. Now, this many years on, I don’t even know what making it big means any more.
Some dog is barking at a fat kid shoveling the morning’s light snow and it snaps me back to the matter at hand. A dozen steps gets me to a dodgy office building with a crumbling brick facade. A couple dozen more and I’m standing outside a door with stenciling on the frosted window. Rich Rodriguez: Private Dick. Comic Sans. Shows ‘em who’s boss before even saying a word.
Judging by the fact that the door to my office is cracked open, it looks like someone didn’t get that memo. I instinctively reach for my holster and prepare for Mssrs. Smith & Wesson to give my guest six reasons why it’s rude to arrive unannounced. When people won’t listen to Comic Sans, I’ve found that they’ll always listen to hot lead. I throw open the door and immediately hear a voice.
“Boa noite, Sr. Rodrguez. I was wondering if you could help me with a little problem I’m having?” It’s purred like a cat.
My eyes follow my ears to a corner where I see a pair of legs that start at the floor, disappear into the shadows and seem like they must end somewhere in Ypsilanti. This could be interesting.
Next week…Chapter 2: 5′ 11″ of South American Sex Appeal
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